Teen Angst That Isn't
by Caporal
Summary: A first try at setting Draco and Zach at each other's throats. Involves melodramatic!Draco, sarcastic!Zacharias, apathetic!Harry, and an extended flashback. PG-13 for slash, violence, and melodrama. (D/H, random subtext)


A/N: This was supposed to be a somewhat humourous Draco-in-orange fic. It mutated. There's too much angst and not enough orange. I probably should have taken out the orange entirely. It's not bad though...judge for yourself.   
  
Warning: Slash, violence, angst, blah. Due to FF.N being a bitch, I can't give you a html-formatted version. Emphasis is surrounded by one little *, thoughts in two little **s  
  
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Reallytruly. Promise. Cross my heart hope to die. Looky the British woman!   
  
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~*~The Somewhat Ridiculous Teen Angst Of A Man In His Twenties~*~  
  
The raid had, all in all, been a success. For the first time in the Second Voldemort War, the Dark Lord's Headquarters at Malfoy Manor had been breached. Five new Death Eaters were currently on their way to Azkaban, and the identities of half a dozen more had been positively confirmed. Voldemort had not been seen, but Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange had, and their Apparition tracked. Even now, a team of Aurors were trailing the pair. The return losses were few of any sort, and there was no question but that it was a victory.  
  
That was, of course, looking at it from a purely statistical point of view. Zacharias Smith was one of four members of the Order of the Phoenix captured and spirited away before anyone could track them, and from his perspective, the loss to the Order was very high indeed. Four captured, three dead, most injured, to greater or lesser degrees, for what? Five incarcerated, six identified, an unknown number scattered across the country, ready to regroup at a moment's notice. The hard numbers made it look like a victory, but the Death Eaters greatly outnumbered the Order, and in actuality, had suffered very little.  
  
And the Order had lost him. Zacharias was arrogant, but he really was one of the best at what he did. And what he did was hunt the servants of Voldemort. Now he was being forced roughly down a dank, dark corridor in an unknown prison, to be tortured, interrogated, and probably tortured some more, for all the information he possessed.   
  
Sense-muffling curses had ben cast on him, so he could only assume the corridor was dank and dark, but it seemed to be the sort of thing the Death Eaters would have. And when he was thrust onto a cold stone floor and the spell was lifted, Zacharias could see that his instincts had not yet failed him. Dank and dark the corridor certainly was, and his cell equally so. But then, he had learned years ago that the Death Eaters were all drama queens, so who was surprised?  
  
Days, maybe weeks, passed. Zacharias amused himself by etching profanities onto the cell wall with bits of broken rock. His guard, whose face he never saw, should have been replaced by a security troll years back, and taunting him was frustratingly unsatisfying. Zacharias knew full well that his own personal comfort was not the Death Eaters aim in imprisoning him, but by what he judged to be the tenth day, he was sure he had begun walking the long, boring path into insanity.  
  
The three who had been captured with him were nowhere near Zacharias' own cell. He could only assume that they had all been separated, to preclude any cunning plans, or that they were dead. He rather thought the former theory was the right one, as there was little point in leaving him alive so long if the Death Eaters plan was merely to dispose of their captives on the spot.   
  
Finally, after what seemed like years but was in all likelihood more like two weeks, it was Zacharias' turn to be interrogated. He had no idea what his comrades fate had been, or even if Ginny, Terry, or Oliver were still alive, but he thought it best not to get his hopes up. With Death Eaters, you just had to let what came your way happen, until you were secure enough to start thinking about escape. And Zacharias wanted to know who he was dealing with before he tried anything too clever.  
  
Unfortunately for him, he was dealing with a Malfoy. The Malfoys were right in the inner circle of Death Eaters, Voldemort's favorites, and although Minion the Younger wasn't quite as high up as his father, Zacharias had tangled with him before, and it hadn't been pretty.   
  
Then again, the last time they'd met, Malfoy hadn't been wearing blindingly orange robes.  
  
"Smith", he said, in the old familiar drawl, striding into the chamber where his prisoner was bound. "We meet again."  
  
Zacharias made a great show of rolling his eyes. "What, no maniacal laugh? You disappoint me, Malfoy."  
  
Malfoy just glared. "I would leave the clever talk for a time when our positions are reversed, Smith, lest you find yourself biting off...*more than you can chew*." he finished menacingly  
  
  
  
"You slipped me a modified Canary Cream in seventh year and I spent the entire day flapping around the Great Hall. I remember. Do you have anything more recent? I've gotten pretty desensitized to that one."  
  
"I am warning you, Smith. Your situation is already precarious, you do not want to tempt me."  
  
Zacharias grinned. "What better time? You can't pretend you aren't going to torture me anyway, and you can't kill me until you have the information you need. This isn't going to change a thing. Besides, it's fun, watching you blush like a schoolgirl."  
  
The trademark pink flush had by now appeared on Malfoy's cheeks. **Still easily insulted, Malfoy. An overdeveloped sense of personal injustice isn't going to get you anywhere.**  
  
"Goes beautifully with the orange, I might add," he continued "Of course, it clashes with that pale, blond coloring, but if you ignore the fact that you look like a human carrot, it's lov–"  
  
He was cut off abruptly by a muttered "Crucio". Even as wave after wave of excruciating pain tore through him, a disappointed voice at the back of his head muttered darkly about not having even started yet and jinx-happy Death Eaters. When Malfoy lifted his wand after a timeless minute of agony, Zacharias tasted blood, and found that he had bitten through his bottom lip during the torture. Nothing new there. He was lucky, in fact. **Too lucky...**   
  
Head clear again, he glared resentfully up at his tormentor. "What was that for? There's absolutely no reason for you to have been that easy on me..." **Dare I say it?** "I'm not Harry Potter, as you well know."   
  
Malfoy paused, midway through another muttered Crucio, and looked straight at him; the eyes, usually silver-grey, were nearly black with rage. "*What?*"  
  
**Too late now**... The little voice held a note of glee; it was Zacharias' malicious streak personified. Unaffected by curses and enraged Death Eaters, its residency's imminent demise did not occur to it as a particularly disastrous event. But it had been right: Zacharias couldn't retract what he'd said.  
  
"I *said*, I'm not Harry Potter, so why was that Cruciatus so pathetic?"  
  
Malfoy really was enraged now. Predictable Minion of Evil that he was, however, Zacharias was expecting the Cruciatus curse again, and much stronger this time.  
  
Body screaming for release, his mind worked itself free. **That really was a low blow. Not that the bastard doesn't deserve it, but... And anyway, I was wrong. Malfoy'd *never* go easy on Harry. If anything, falling in love with him just made the hatred even more intense. No need to let him know that I know that, though.**  
  
Draco's eyes watched his prisoner, writhing and screaming in his bonds, every inch of him trembling in rage. **How dare he...*** How dare this insignificant Hufflepuff *halfblood*, not worth his time or energy, bring *that* out into the open? It was always there of course, in the back of his mind, a white elephant begging acknowledgment, but rarely, if ever, getting its wish. Come to think of it, how did Smith even *know*? Draco certainly hadn't told him. He raised his wand.  
  
Zacharias leaned back in the stone chair. Malfoy glared down at him, all icy eyes and trembling rage and...impossible-to-ignore orange robes. He couldn't think what could have possessed the other man to dress so: possibly the only thing the Malfoys had in common with the Weasleys was the tendency to look faintly ridiculous in orange.  
  
But thinking of the Weasleys sparked a painful twinge completely unrelated to the Cruciatus Curse, and this was no time for fruitless reminiscing. Zacharias backtracked to the previous line of thought, and, looking up, remarked conversationally:  
  
"So, *is* there a reason for the orange? Won't you satisfy a doomed man's curiosity?"  
  
Zacharias might have thought he heard Malfoy snort derisively, if he hadn't known that the Death Eater considered himself too well-bred to do anything so uncouth.  
  
"To your half-breed eyes, perhaps blood gold appears orange. But at least you may learn, in your final days, that these are the Malfoy family's Executor robes. They are-"   
  
"The robes you wear when you kill people? Merlin, you Minions of Evil need lives. What do you do when there's no Dark wizards around to be subservient to?"   
  
He smirked. It had been a long time since a Death Eater's insults about his lineage had had any effect whatsoever.  
  
  
  
**********  
  
Hours later, Zacharias was tossed back in his cell, battered from numerous subjections to the Cruciatus curse. This had only been the opening round, his interrogator's chance to get a feel for him before getting down to serious business. He had been lucky; he'd shaken Malfoy badly in the beginning. Next time, the Death Eater would be better prepared, with much more recent experience of his victim to help him. Zacharias only hoped he'd doomed Malfoy to a sleepless night, tormented by thoughts of his oldest enemy. He deserved that triumph.  
  
**Yeah, I was definitely wrong about him. *Think* before you speak, Smith. I saw him fighting Harry during the raid. And if either of them were holding back, I *never* want to see them at their best. They're so evenly matched, I don't think they *could* kill each other. Could almost make you pity the evil bastard, though. I can't think what it'd be like to fall in love with the person you hate most in the world. Unfortunately, I do know what it's like to...not going there. But none of my pity is going out to Malfoy. He deserves all the trauma he might have accumulated over the years. And who knows what he'd do if he ever got his hands on Harry. Don't think I want to know, come to think of it. Wouldn't put *anything* past his lot.**  
  
************  
  
In his own, much more lavish quarters, Draco Malfoy was fulfilling all Zacharias' hopes for a very sleepless night. He hated Smith. Not as much as he hated Potter, but that was different. Smith had always been nastier than any Hufflepuff he'd ever met, and he'd been personally offended to meet someone who didn't just break the stereotypes, but took a vicious pleasure in twisting them beyond recognition and tossing them aside like so much used toilet paper. But desperate ranting about Zacharias Smith came nowhere near to quelling the thoughts of Potter struggling to break through to his full consciousness. *Damn* the man! Repression and denial were Draco's oldest friends, and when they were overthrown by one smartass prisoner, he was left all but defenseless.   
  
  
  
**Damn you Potter. Damn you to the ninth circle of fucking hell. You think I *asked* for this? You think I *wanted* to...want you? And when have I ever fucking gone easy on you? Ever stopped despising you long enough to even *think* about not wanting to *kill* you? What about your attack two weeks ago? If I could have wiped you off the face of the earth, I would have. But no. You always had to be better at everything. And you weren't satisfied with just being better, could you? No, you couldn't let me hate you and have done with it. You had to be an enemy I could respect, could...Why can't it be as simple as it used to be? I used to just hate you, nothing more, nothing less. Why does it have to be so fucking *complicated?* On that note, how does Smith know about it? Did you tell him? I *know* you found out, however much I wish you hadn't. Did you tell him? I didn't know you were such good friends. Or are you more than that? Do you give him what's been denied me? You said, though...I heard what you said, but I won't believe it, because there would be no point to anything if I did...am I doomed to stay awake all night, dwelling on my morbid, unrealizable fantasies? I never thought I'd say this, but in this respect, I'm entirely too much like my father. Oh, fuck Lucius. He's ceased to matter anymore, though I can still pretend otherwise... Your offer still stands, doesn't it, Potter? Stupid naive Gryffindor... Fuck Lucius, fuck life, fuck your stupid offer...nothing matters, does it?  
  
He did not sleep for a long time that night. When the complaints had been purged from his system , he began to remember things. Draco hated remembering. Memories bring with them thoughts and whispers he'd much rather not have to deal with.   
  
He remembers being eleven, offering his hand to another boy, one he liked the look of, one he knew would help him. He knew they could become schoolyard kings together: with his money and the other's fame, there would be no one to stand against them. Remembers being coldly rebuffed, his dreams dashed, vowing never to forgive, never to forget, to become this boy's enemy, this arrogant child's better in all ways.  
  
He remembers failing. He remembers spending all his free time on the useless school broomsticks, determined to best his enemy in what had always been an area of excellence. He remembers desperately appealing to his father when all other attempts to win the position of Seeker failed –no one wanted a scrawny second-year in the crucial spot.  
  
He remembers living for the enmity, hating Potter and wishing he didn't have to, inventing new reasons to hate him when the real ones became stale, although Potter usually supplied enough ammunition on his own, remembers Potter always looking down on him, as though he were no more than a particularly annoying insect, not straight across as he should to a real enemy. Until...  
  
Until he finally goaded Potter into losing his head, finally succeeded in his endless effort to get him to see a real enemy. He hadn't expected it; he had lost to him at Quidditch, not for the first or the last time, and he had cried out anything that came to mind out of pure spitefulness.   
  
And it had worked. He never knew what it was that had stung Potter so badly, couldn't even remember what he'd said, but it had worked. And here, too, Potter bested him. But not as he had thought. He had suddenly, and without warning, realized that this was not what he had wanted. He had not wanted Potter to run at him with murderous intent, he did not want Potter to touch him like this. But he *did* want Potter to run at him. And he did want Potter to touch him, *oh* yes.  
  
And he was lost. He was confused and rebellious and resentful, and he hated and wanted to avoid Potter at all costs. He did, until the end of the year, when Potter somehow managed to reveal his father as a Death Eater, and land him in Azkaban. That was when he realized that no matter how else he might feel about Potter, he still hated him, more than ever. Nothing could get in the way of that hate, be it lust, love, or death. He knew, with certainty, that he would despise Potter until the end of time.  
  
The worst is past; Draco remembers his induction into the ranks of the Death Eaters, the searing pain as the Dark Mark was burned irrevocably into his flesh, and the exultation that *now* he was ready, now he would find, torture, and kill Potter for his Master.  
  
He remembers *becoming* a Death Eater, putting into practice the oaths he had sworn to the Dark Lord. He remembers seeing others falter as they realized exactly what they were bound to do, he remembers killing them as swiftly as he would any Mudblood.  
  
He remembers meeting Potter again, on the field of battle. He thinks Potter knew him; he called him by his name; 'Malfoy', but now he believes Potter had mistaken him for his father. He remembers meeting him more personally, picked to be part of a small, elite group sent to ambush Potter. The Dark Lord himself had been there, and he *knows* Potter recognized him this time. They had fought, one-on-one, and he'd hated Potter, and reveled in it, relieved to know that he had been right; nothing could get in the way of his hatred.  
  
And then...his mind skips ahead. It was not their last meeting, but half a year ago, and it was that meeting that brought the hidden thoughts, the repressed desire, firmly to the surface.  
  
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["Pleasure seeing you again, Malfoy. Expelliarmus!" Harry was grinning, a wild, reckless grin Draco had never seen before.  
  
"Can't think why.", he'd answered, "Crucio!" dodging a virtual plethora of curses. The room was not small, but it was not meant to hold what would be a battle if the numbers were slightly larger: with all the magical shields going up, you're more likely to hit someone behind you than your actual opponent.  
  
"What, don't you find this fun? Like Quidditch, only life-threatening. Crucio yourself!" Draco dodged quickly, vaguely surprised to see Potter dealing Unforgivables so unhesitatingly. The unfamiliar grin unnerved him. Potter had been changing, slowly but steadily, over the past year, but Draco only really saw it then. He'd come to regard the Second Voldemort War as a *game*, and Draco knew why. He'd been through the same thing on a regular basis for over ten years now; he'd become desensitized. Dueling the Dark Lord was practically an annual event for him, one he knew he would escape only to repeat it again and again for who knows how long?  
  
Draco doesn't care for the inner workings of Harry Potter's mind for any more than a clue, a hint to how he can be destroyed. If he wanted to view his life as a game, let him lose for once. Draco could learn the rules and defeat him for good.  
  
Potter grinned again, but this time there was a hint of a sneer beneath. "You think you can win the game, don't you? Just like you always used to win at Quidditch? You're welcome to try."  
  
"This isn't Quidditch, Potter. Nor is it a game. And I will try. And if I fail, I'll try again. I'll try as many times as it takes. There's no standing on the pitch and yelling until you attack anymore. I'm not going to wait for you this time. We need something more original than .." he shielded a wayward Expelliarmus "...Crucio"  
  
But Potter had ducked, and the curse had gone flying past to rebound off of Bella Lestrange's shield charm. Where it went after that, Draco neither knew nor cared, there were more important things to do, like dodge the stream of jinxes Potter sent at him.   
  
"Stupefy! Persistent, are you? Expelliarmus! Tarantellegra! Good luck. If anyone kills me, it'll be Voldemort. Crucio! You're right. This one's getting old. Got any new evil dark curses up your sleeve?"  
  
  
  
"That's arrogant, Potter. Only Voldemort is good enough to kill you? Crucio Inflamare!" A jet of pearly-white fire shot out of the end of Draco's wand and struck Potter in the shoulder. Red welts began creeping out from under his collar, and he screamed in pain. Draco smirked, let the welts reach Potter's earlobe, and lifted his wand.  
  
Potter had been panting as he reached around to gingerly touch his shoulder. Then he'd whirled, and caught Draco off-guard with a quiet "Expelliarmus." He caught Draco's wand neatly in one hand. " Petrificus Totallus." Draco went rigid. Potter had walked calmly over and kneeled to place his wand back into his hand.   
  
"No, Malfoy, just the truth. Only I can kill Voldemort, and only Voldemort can kill me. It's a fact. Live with it." Draco had just glared. Glaring was really all that was possible under the circumstances.  
  
"But if you can't, or ever decide to acknowledge Voldemort as the scumbag he is, contact me. It's probably in your best interests. Finite Incantatem."  
  
Draco had stood up, and, keeping his wand firmly leveled on Harry, had asked, "Why?"  
  
Harry had grinned again, and said "Why did you choose to keep on hating me? This is the way I deal with it. Stupefy." And that had been the last thing Draco heard until Flint had Ennervated him as he passed.  
  
*****************************************************  
  
Draco has no idea what Potter meant by that last. He knows what he would *like* for it to mean, but he doesn't want to think about that. What he does know is that every time they've met in the past six months, Potter has said simply, "My offer still stands, you know." Draco should be amused by this; it seems Potter is trying to redeem him, but he's not. He's -almost- but no. He's not. Why should he care if Potter wants to 'save' him? It's none of his bloody business, anyway.  
  
He finally does drift into an uneasy sleep, and dreams of the bloody demise of Zacharias Smith.  
  
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A/N: *Whores for reviews* 


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